


Of Songs and Sorrows

by MiHnn



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Series, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-07 16:11:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7721320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiHnn/pseuds/MiHnn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thinks of the knights of songs, and he wonders if one day, they will sing songs of him. She thinks of the knights of old, and she wonders if her knight will someday come.</p><p>AU: Jon goes to King's Landing instead of the Wall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Jon

**Author's Note:**

> A story inspired by the following quotes: 
> 
> _Frog-faced Lord Slynt sat at the end of the council table wearing a black velvet doublet and a shiny cloth-of-gold cape, nodding with approval every time the king pronounced a sentence. Sansa stared hard at his ugly face, remembering how he had thrown down her father for Ser Ilyn to behead, wishing she could hurt him, wishing that some hero would throw him down and cut off his head. But a voice inside her whispered, There are no heroes…_ \- Sansa Stark, A Game of Thrones
> 
>  _The smile that Lord Janos Slynt smiled then had all the sweetness of rancid butter. Until Jon said, “Edd, fetch me a block,” and unsheathed Longclaw._ \- Jon Snow, A Dance With Dragons.
> 
> and....
> 
>  _She shouted for Ser Dontos, for her brothers, for her dead father and her dead wolf, for gallant Ser Loras who had given her a red rose once, but none of them came. She called for the heroes from the songs, for Florian and Ser Ryam Redwyne and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, but no one heard._ \- Sansa Stark, A Clash of Kings
> 
>  _They were not little boys when they fought, but knights and mighty heroes. “I’m Prince Aemon the Dragonknight,” Jon would call out, and Robb would shout back, “Well, I’m Florian the Fool.” Or Robb would say, “I’m the Young Dragon,” and Jon would reply, “I’m Ser Ryam Redwyne.”_ \- Jon Snow, A Storm of Swords
> 
> I do love my parallels. I've aged them up for obvious reasons.

He is a few moons past the age of five when he makes his first mistake.

 

“Father,” he says, because Robb said ‘ _Father’_ first, as they play knights and dragons. They hold wooden swords that are heavy in their small hands and Ser Rodrik said they were braver than any knight he has ever met.

 

Jon had smiled widely, declaring himself to be Prince Aemon the Dragonknight, whilst Robb had hit him lightly with his sword and said, “Well, I’m Florian the Fool!”

 

The Lord of Winterfell had smiled, while the Lady he stands with had looked on Jon with cold disapproval. From the moment Jon says the word ‘Father’ she stares at him worse than she ever has, and the Lord looks at his Lady Wife with worry.

 

Jon drops his sword, for he knows he has done something wrong even though he does not know what. _I didn’t mean to_ , he wishes he could say. _Please don’t be angry. I won’t do it again._

 

“He is only a boy,” the Lord says, yet the Lady says nothing, her eyes hard. The Lord sighs. “I shall speak with him.”

 

“See that you do,” the Lady says, before she turns towards her son. “Robb, come with me.”

 

Robb shrugs, following his mother easily with a small wave towards Jon, and Jon watches as the Lady smiles with unmatched affection as her hand pets his red curls as he walks along beside her.

 

The Lord lowers himself, sitting on his heels so that his eyes meet Jon’s. “Do you remember what we spoke of?” he asks gently.

 

The Lord’s smile is sad and Jon does not know why. He nods, because he does not want the Lord to be sad.

 

The Lord smiles wider, his eyes suspicious. “Truly?”

 

Jon shakes his head, because he does not know what the Lord speaks of.

 

The Lord sighs, his hand gentle as it holds the back of Jon’s neck. “When we are alone, you may call me ‘Father’. But, when we are in the company of others, you must call me ‘Lord Stark’, understood?”

 

Jon thinks on this, still not happy with such a rule. “Robb calls you ‘Father’ all the time,” he says.

 

The Lord’s smile stays sad even though Jon wonders what he had done to make the Lord sad. “Robb will be Lord of Winterfell one day. And as such, he can call me ‘Father’. You must call me ‘Lord Stark’ in front of others.”

 

Jon thinks on this, even though he still does not understand why Robb can do something he can’t. “Can I call you ‘Father’ when it’s just you, me and Robb?” he asks hopefully.

 

The Lord smiles, his eyes still sad, and Jon wonders if he had asked the wrong thing. “Aye. But _only_ when it is the three of us.”

 

Jon smiles, happy with this rule. But, then his smile falls and the Lord asks him gently. “What is it?”

 

“Is Lady Stark very angry with me?” Jon asks sadly. “I didn’t mean to make her angry.”

 

“You need not worry about that,” the Lord says gently. “You stick to your lessons, you do what Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik instruct you to, you call me ‘Lord Stark’ in the company of others and Lady Stark will not be angry for long. Will you do that?”

 

Jon nods, his eyes brightening with determination. “I will be the best student, Father. You’ll see.”

 

Lord Eddard Stark squeezes Jon’s shoulder affectionately. “I have no doubt of it, Ser Dragonknight.”

 

Jon smiles widely, picking up his sword as if he is preparing to battle.

 

The Lord laughs. “Go on, then,” he says. “Go play with Robb before supper.”

 

Jon waves at his father before he runs past the training yard, hoping to find his brother and defeat him the way a true knight can.

 

* * *

 

 

“We must be quiet,” Robb says, “Mother is sleeping.”

 

Jon does not want to go, but Robb pulls him. “Why must I come?” he whispers as they come closer to the Lord and Lady’s Chamber. As they reach the door, Jon tries to turn back, but his brother pulls on his jerkin to keep him from running away.

 

“Don’t you want to see our sister?”

 

“Your mother will not be pleased.”

 

“You have not seen her yet. You must.”

 

“Why is this so important?” Jon asks, at a loss for words.

 

Robb grins widely as he opens the door to his parents’ chamber, while holding onto Jon to keep him close. His brother places a lone finger before his lips as a glint of mischievousness colours his eyes. Jon follows, as he always does when Robb wants him to.

 

Lady Stark stays asleep in her furs, her long hair matted after hours of labour, and near the foot of the bed is the crib Robb pulls him to. Jon goes warily, expecting to see another Stark with Tully blue eyes and Tully auburn hair. Yet, when he looks down, he sees a head of dark hair that is not unlike his own.

 

Jon’s eyes widen as he stares at the babe that stares up at him with wide, grey eyes.  


“She looks like me,” he whispers in awe. The babe gurgles with laughter, and Robb looks at his mother with worry, but Jon stares at his little half-sister reaching through the wooden bars of the crib to touch her head. She grabs his hand, suckling on his finger the way he has seen Sansa once do to Robb, and Jon feels his heart expand with love and affection he has never quite felt before.

 

“I knew you would want to see her,” Robb says proudly.

 

Sansa was Robb’s sister, but little Arya Stark was surely his.

 

The babe gurgles again, and Robb pulls on his arm. “We must go.”

 

Reluctantly, Jon pulls his arm from her grip, and he watches as she continues to smile up at him. “I will always protect you,” he swears to her. “I will be your knight, just like in the songs.”

 

“Come,” Robb says in a low hiss, grabbing Jon’s arm as they leave just as Lady Stark begins to awake.

 

Jon smiles widely as they chase each other through the castle. He has a sister, he thinks. He finally has his own sister; just like Robb.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa looks very much like her Lady mother as she scolds Robb, and Robb looks every bit like their father as he speaks to her sternly. Jon does not know what he should do or what he should say, so he stands and waits while the two children of the Lord and Lady of Winterfell decide who will play the knight and who will play the dragon.

 

“You cannot be the knight!” Sansa says in frustration. Her cheeks are red with fury and she stamps her foot to make her point.

 

“Why can’t I be the knight?” Robb asks. “Jon can be the dragon.”

 

“The knight saves the princess and gets a kiss. I can’t kiss you, you’re my brother.”

Robb sticks his tongue out at her. “Who would want to kiss you? A true knight would never kiss a girl. A true knight acts because he is honourable and brave, not to get a kiss from an ugly girl,” Robb says, obvious disgust on his face. He looks at Jon. “Would you kiss her?”

 

Jon feels his cheeks redden. “I—”

 

Sansa stares at Robb in horror before she shoves him. Robb manages to keep his balance, but before he can shove Sansa, Septa Mordane appears to stand before them.

 

“Is this how Lords and Ladies behave?” she asks sternly. “Your parents would be ashamed of you.”

 

Jon watches as both Sansa and Robb bow their heads in shame. But a moment later, Sansa points to her brother in accusation. “Septa, please tell my brother that he is only fit to be an awful dragon and not a knight.”

 

“Septa,” Robb says, “please tell my sister that I would make a much better knight than Jon.”

 

At his words, the Septa eyes Jon critically, who feels his cheeks warm once again. The Septa takes Sansa’s hand in hers, her voice low but firm. “Ladies do not play with Bastards.”

 

“But—”

 

“Do you want to upset your mother?”

 

Sansa bows her head, and then shakes her head from side to side slowly. “Good. Come with me now. It is time for your sewing lesson.”

 

Sansa follows the Septa, her eyes meeting Jon’s for a moment before she sticks her tongue out at Robb as a parting gift.

 

Robb does the same before he turns towards Jon. “Forget her. We don’t need girls to play knights and dragons.”

 

Jon nods, half-heartedly listening to Robb as he speaks of what they should play next. He wonders why Septa Mordane’s words upset him so.

 

* * *

 

 

Jon’s body is sore, but Robb and Theon keep matching him stroke for stroke, so he does not stop, even with sweat on his brow and the heat from the long summer weighing him.

 

Ser Rodrik commands them with each movement, watching as they move their wooden swords through the motions as he had instructed them. “Again,” he says, and Jon feels like his arms might fall from his body.

 

“Tired, Snow?” Theon asks with a smirk and Jon grits his teeth harder.

 

“Not as tired as you, Greyjoy.”

 

Robb laughs, his own arms shaking. “You both must be tired. I can do this all day.”

 

Robb’s laughter stops when he sees his Lady mother come closer, and Jon watches as Ser Rodrik bows in greeting.

 

“How goes my son’s training, Ser?”

 

Jon does the exercise, and watches as Robb concentrates more since his mother is watching.

 

“Very well, My Lady. He will make a decent fighter as yet... _If he does not drop his elbow_ ,” he says harshly.

 

Robb winces as he raises his elbow, and Jon cannot help but smirk since his own elbow has stayed up during the whole exercise. His smile falls when he sees the look Lady Catelyn sends him.

 

Jon looks down, and his own arm drops, causing Ser Rodrik to turn his attention on him. “Not yet, boy. You will never become a knight if you keep giving up when you’re tired.”

 

“Bastards don’t become knights,” Lady Stark says softly, her eyes hard on Jon. “They go to the Wall.”

 

Robb drops his own practice sword at her words, as does Theon, and Jon meets the eyes of Ser Rodrik, who looks at him with as much pity as his half-brother does.

 

Jon is still only nine years old and a knight is the only thing he has ever wanted to be.

 

“Regardless, My Lady, the boys must learn how to fight. Arms up!”

 

Jon raises his arms as the others do, and although his form is wrong, he cannot bring himself to correct it.

 

“See that my son does not over-exert himself, Ser Rodrik,” Lady Stark says before she takes her leave.

 

“Aye, My Lady,” Ser Rodrik says with a slight bow before he turns his attention back to the three of them. He ignores Robb and Theon, and makes his way to Jon, his expression stern. “Tell me, why does your father insist you learn your swordplay, boy?”

 

“I don’t know,” Jon says softly.

 

“If the Gods be good, you will never see battle in your lifetime. But, if you need to ride into battle one day, it will be with your brothers. Do you want to be useless, hiding behind the skirts of women or do you want to battle alongside them and protect them?”

 

“I want to protect them,” Jon says, because of course he would want to keep his half-siblings safe from harm.

 

“Then put your arm up and don’t drop your elbow unless you want a lashing.”

 

Jon does as he is bid, his brows furrowing in concentration. Ser Rodrik grunts in approval before he moves to Theon next, a rough hand straightening his father’s ward’s arm.

 

* * *

 

 

“Father, may I ask you something?” Jon asks carefully. He is one—and—ten years now, a boy grown. He may still ride a pony and his archery might not be the best, but his swordplay is better than what it was and his lessons are tougher than most.

 

Robb stands beside him, his expression troubled by what he has seen. Jon’s eyes fall on his father’s blade, Ice, as his father nods his assent. The blood is a deep red and Jon shivers in fear.

 

“Must deserters be beheaded, Father? Why not hang them?”

 

“Don’t be stupid,” Robb says. “We keep to the Old ways, don’t we, Father?”

 

“Aye,” Lord Eddard says as he uses an old rag to wipe the blood from his sword. “But there is no harm in questioning the way things have been done. Tell me, why do you ask?”

 

Jon is silent for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. “Taking a man’s head from his shoulders, that is the best way, then?”

 

His father looks at him suspiciously. “Aye,” he says carefully. “If the blade is sharp and the executioner has skill. It gives the swiftest death with the least amount of pain. What troubles you?”

 

Jon shakes his head, worried. “If I ever desert the Night’s Watch, would you be the one to take my head?”

 

Just as Robb stares in horror at Jon, so does Lord Stark. “You intend to join the Night’s Watch?”

 

“Lady Stark says that is the only way I could ever be a Knight.”

 

Lord Stark swears under his breath, a moment so rare that Robb and Jon cannot help but stare at him in fear.

 

“You are too young to think of these things,” he says dismissively.

 

“Lady Stark says—”

 

“It does not matter what Lady Stark says,” his father grunts roughly. “You are still a child. You must be a man grown to join the Watch.”

 

“Uncle Benjen says—”

 

“Have you spoken to everyone but me on this?” Lord Stark asks harshly, causing Jon to falter.

 

“I’m sorry, Father,” Jon says, for he truly is sorry. “I know that Starks have manned the Wall for thousands of years. I only ever wanted to serve under your name and bring you honour the only way I could.”

 

“You need not go to the Wall,” Robb says quickly. “I can make you a Knight, can’t I, Father?”

 

Jon shakes his head. “Knights are the sons of Lords and Ladies, not Bastards.”

 

Lord Stark stays silent, his blade clean before he places it in its sheath. “When you’re older, we shall discuss it further. Joining the Night’s Watch is not a decision to be made lightly. When you join, you join for life. You know this.”

 

Jon and Robb nod, their expressions grave as they follow their father back home to Winterfell.

 

* * *

 

 

“Careful now,” Ser Rodrik says as Jon’s blade meets Robb’s. It is the first time they are allowed to use proper steel, their practice swords now forgotten in the training yard.

 

Jon wants nothing more than to concentrate, but the loud giggling of Sansa and her companion, Jeyne Poole, keeps drawing his attention.

 

Robb feels the same, for he drops his sword and turns on his sister. “If you must stay, can you be silent?”

 

Sansa bristles at his words, whilst Jeyne’s giggling pauses quite suddenly. “If you were a proper knight, our laughter wouldn’t pull your attention.”

 

“Who says we’re not proper knights?” Jon asks. He regrets his words as soon as they leave his lips, for the look the two girls send him, sends a chill through his spine.

 

“You can’t be a knight,” his half-sister says curtly. “You’re a Bastard.”

 

“Sansa!” Robb chastises her, even as Jon hears Ser Rodrik sigh.

 

“He can _so_ be a knight,” a small voice says suddenly, and Jon laughs when Arya pulls at her sister’s skirts before she runs into the training yard, barely missing Sansa’s grip. His little sister runs until she is behind him, her small arms circling his waist as she hugs him with all the affection he has ever showed her. “He is _my_ knight.”

 

Jon circles his arms around his sister, affection in his gaze. “And I always will be.”

 

Sansa huffs. “Don’t be stupid. You marry your knight. You _can’t_ marry Jon. He’s your half-brother.”

 

“I don’t care!” Arya tightens her grip on him. “I won’t marry _anyone_.”

 

Ser Rodrik steps forward, his voice strong and demanding attention. “If you don’t let them train, they won’t even be squires worthy to carry a knight’s armour.”

 

Arya steps out from behind Jon, her face raised with expectation. “When will you teach me how to use a sword, Ser Rodrik?”

 

Before Ser Rodrik can reply, Sansa rolls her eyes. “You’re such an idiot.”

 

“ _You’re_ an idiot,” Arya snaps.

 

Ser Rodrik shakes his head. “Your father says I’m not to instruct you.”

 

“Why not?” she asks with a pout. “I can be just as good as Jon and Robb. I just need to practice.”

 

“I apologise, My Lady.” Jon is happy to see that the Master—at—Arms really does look bereft by his own words. “But young ladies have no place in battle.”

 

“You don’t know that!” she shouts.

 

Jon places a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Listen to him, Arya. One day, Father might surprise you.”

 

“I doubt it.” She pouts further, kicking a stone and slumping away, leaving Robb and Jon to their training.

 

Jon cannot help but think of her with a sword. A large blade wouldn’t do, but a small one would be easy for his little sister to wield.

 

* * *

 

 

Jon is eight—and—ten when his father gives him news that he does not care for.

 

“Lord Stark—” he begins, intent on arguing his case, but his voice is stopped by his father’s expression to the words Jon had chosen. “Father, please,” he says. “Let me take the Black. Let me join Uncle Benjen at the Wall.”

 

“You are too young to take the Black,” Eddard Stark says. “You will join me and the girls on our journey South, at least for a little while.”

 

“They do not treat Bastards kindly at court.”

 

“Aye,” his father says, his words heavy. “But you cannot stay here while I’m gone.”

 

“Then let me go North. Let me help defend the realm like Uncle Benjen.”

 

“If you do this without protest, I will reconsider your plea once we reach King’s Landing.”

 

Jon’s eyes widen with fervour. “Truly?”

 

His father sighs heavily. “You must travel with us without complaint, you must protect your sisters and do as I say. Do you agree to my terms?”

 

Jon thinks of Lady Catelyn and how angry she will be at his father for taking his Bastard son to Court. He thinks of Sansa, who will pretend she lacks any knowledge of his existence even though her wolf, Lady, shows him more affection than his half-sister ever has. Then, he thinks of Arya, of how joyful she will be, knowing that he will join her on her journey to King’s Landing. She will be cheerful to have her sparring partner with her as she travels to a place she does not want to go to.

 

“Aye,” Jon says, finally. If he must do this to take the Black, then he shall go South with his father and Robert Baratheon, as much as it pains him to do so. 


	2. Prologue: Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was SO hard to write. Honestly, it was like pulling teeth. 
> 
> Jon is easy for me to write, but pre-torture (I'm talking Joffrey here) Sansa has always been hard for me to write. Add on the extra four years that I've aged her up and it's near impossible when you consider that she's 15 rather than the innocent 11 year old child she was at the start of the series. But I did my best. 
> 
> So, forgive me for this chapter. It's something I had to write in order to continue the story.

Sansa does not like playing with her brothers. Too many times they leave her when she follows them, or if her mother chastises them, they play with her until her mother leaves. Sometimes, they even take her toys and she must cry to get them back.

 

Her father does not notice, but her mother does. Her mother scolds her brother who has hair like hers with a little smile on her lips, and she does not speak to her brother who has hair like her father. Her mother ignores him, and Sansa does not know why.

 

Sansa follows her brothers, nonetheless, her small legs carrying her, even as she falls every few steps. When she cries, they shush her, helping her to her feet and giving her sweets to stop her sniffles. Sometimes, they make her laugh.

 

They pretend to fight, wooden swords in hands, and she laughs and claps for nothing is as fun as watching one brother defeat the other. They bow at the end and she claps some more, absolute glee on her face.

 

She does not understand why a woman is told to stand by her when she plays with her brothers. And she does not understand why the woman stops her playing with her brother with the dark hair.

 

But she listens to what the woman says, and does what the woman says she must do.

 

She is a good girl, her mother has always told her as such. A good girl always listens and always does what she is told to do. She never upsets her mother or her father and she always does what is expected of her.

 

And Sansa _is_ a good girl. She must _always_ be a good girl.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She is five years old when her father mentions the word ‘knight’ to her for the first time.

 

She asks him if he means Ser Rodrik and he laughs as he lifts her so she can sit on her bed. “Aye, little one,” he says. “But, someone younger, I think. Someone to protect you.”

 

“From Robb?”

 

He laughs again, but Sansa does not think it funny. Her brother had taken her favourite doll that day. She had watched Robb and Theon place her doll on a wooden boat to see how far the hot pools would take it.

 

“Don’t you like playing with your brothers?”

 

Sansa sulks, her head shaking fast from side to side. She hugs her doll tighter and promises herself that she will not carry it outside her bedchamber ever again for fear of it being taken from her.

 

Her father sighs, his hand gentle, as he strokes her hair. “Did they take your doll again?”

 

She nods, and tears prickle her eyes.

 

“They are boys,” he says gently. “They do not understand the value of things half as much as they like to pretend that they do. If only you had a sister…”

 

Her father kisses her forehead before taking his leave and her mother joins shortly after to sing to her. Her voice is sweet and soft, and Sansa falls asleep quickly with the doll in her arms.

 

She meets Jeyne Poole for the first time two days after, and Sansa had never been happier to meet someone who did not want to take her doll away from her.

 

* * *

 

 

She is seven years old when she first hears the story of Ser Aemon the Dragonknight.

 

Septa Mordane questions her after, but she need not have. Sansa remembers the story just as surely as she remembers her lessons in needlework. _The Knight of Tears,_ they called him. A Kingsguard to his brother and a lover to Queen Naerys as said in songs. Sansa cannot imagine loving another so much, nor having such a love denied.

 

“But, he’s her brother!” Arya shouts in disgust, her stitching practically in knots.

 

Sansa’s eyes narrow. “That doesn’t matter to the Targaryens.” Her stitching is perfect, better than Jeyne Poole’s who sits beside her.

 

“The Targaryens prefer marrying brothers to their sisters,” Septa Mordane says with a slight tut as she takes Arya’s stitching from her hands. “It is distasteful, to be sure.” She pulls at the thread and cuts the knot. “They want to keep their blood pure. The blood of the dragon, they call it.” Her lips twist and she gives Arya her stitching. “It does not mean that it is right.”

 

“If it’s not right, why do it then?” Arya asks, and Sansa rolls her eyes.

 

“It doesn’t matter _why,”_ Sansa says. “It’s how it has always been done.”

 

“If it’s _wrong_ ,” Arya snaps, “then it shouldn’t be done in the first place.”

 

To this, Sansa has no words. Jeyne says nothing and Septa Mordane frowns. “Then be grateful you are Starks and not Targaryens,” the Septa says, before she swiftly changes their discussion. “Sansa, do you remember the story of Bran the Builder?”

 

Sansa answers the Septa’s question perfectly, and when the Septa turns to Arya and questions her about the Rebellion, Arya throws down her stitching and cries.

 

Sansa goes back to her needlework as her sister wails loudly and Septa Mordane tries to placate her. Sansa says nothing, knowing that her sister only cries to leave her lessons so she could go play with her half-brother.

 

* * *

 

 

She sees the way her mother watches them from her bedchamber; her brother, Robb, and her bastard half-brother, Jon. Ser Rodrik is instructing them, along with Theon, and they laugh more than they train, earning stern words as a result.

 

Her mother’s lips purse and Sansa calls to her. Her mother smiles gently as she takes a brush in hand and begins to run it through her hair.

 

“You are growing fast,” she says pensively. “Soon you will not need me.”

 

“When father chooses a husband for me,” Sansa says carefully, “will he choose a knight?”

 

Her mother pauses, her eyes meeting Sansa’s through the glass she sits in front of. “When the time comes, your father will find you a match that is fitting. Someone noble. Someone honourable and kind.” She continues to brush Sansa’s hair, her words soft. “Someone like your father.”

 

“Like father?” Sansa asks in confusion.

 

Her mother smiles wistfully. “I could not have chosen a better man to be my husband.”

 

“You love him?” Sansa asks hopefully.

 

“More than my life.”

 

They hear the unmistakeable sound of laughter, and Sansa sees the way her mother’s expression darkens. She wishes she can ask her mother what it is like to know her husband has dishonoured her. She wishes she can ask her how she can still love a man who had brought his bastard son to live with her children. Instead, Sansa sits still as her mother continues to brush her hair.  


“I hope he is handsome,” she says.

 

Because, in the songs, the knight is always handsome. He plays a harp and he sings beautifully. In the songs, the knight is noble, kind, brave, and he loves fiercely.

 

Her mother says nothing. The boys’ laughter the only sound they hear, for a while.

 

* * *

 

 

It is not like Jeyne to beg, but beg she does, and Sansa relents. She finds that there is nothing more tiresome than watching her brothers in the training yard, their swords dulled and without danger.

 

She would much rather watch a great tourney with a handsome knight astride a handsome horse, fighting for glory, for honour, with her favour on his arm. Jeyne’s eyes are wide with fervour and Sansa cannot understand why.

 

“Your brother is handsome, isn’t he?” Jeyne asks her with a whisper.

 

Sansa frowns, her eyes falling on Robb. “I suppose he must be. Sons of Lords must always be handsome.”

 

Jeyne eyes her with confusion before she laughs. “Not Robb. I speak of Jon.”

 

“Jon?” Sansa asks, scandalised by the very thought. “He is a Bastard.”

 

“That does not mean he is not handsome,” Jeyne teases.

 

Sansa watches her companion critically, her eyes narrowing. “Do you like him?”

 

Jeyne’s cheeks warm and Sansa finds her friend’s behaviour inappropriate.

 

“He is kind to me,” Jeyne says suddenly.

 

Sansa thinks of how Robb used to steal her toys and how Jon always brought them back to her. She thinks of how Jon helped her stand once and how her mother had knocked his hand from hers before carrying her away.

 

“Jon is always kind,” she says.

 

They watch in silence, and it does not escape her notice that Jon is better at his swordplay than Robb. It does not matter, she thinks, for she knows that Robb is better at riding and Theon is better at archery.

 

Sansa thinks it is time to leave and voices her thoughts to Jeyne. Jeyne blushes. “Can we stay a little longer?” she asks.

 

Sansa sees the way her brothers wipe sweat from their brows and she wonders how anyone could find such a thing attractive. “We will stay a while longer,” she says. “But we must go for our lesson with Septa Mordane soon.”

 

Jeyne nods, grateful, for a while at least. Sansa watches the way her brothers fight, wondering when she will see a tall, handsome knight fight for her hand.

 

* * *

 

The news of the King coming to Winterfell is enough to make Sansa act unladylike. She is five-and-ten and she never thought she would see such a sight.

 

Septa Mordane chastises the way Sansa and Jeyne shriek, telling them that ladies have not, and will not make such sounds no matter how pleasing the news is. Yet, Sansa does not hear a word. She has dreamt of seeing knights and princes. She has read all the stories; she has heard every song. She knows that the King comes with his son, who is older than her and handsome.

 

For if he is a Prince he must be handsome. He must be witty and kind with comely features. He must be proficient with a sword and a far better rider than her brothers. Surely, he will kiss her hand and ask her to dance. And within that first dance he will fall in love with her and she with him. He will beg for her hand in marriage and her father will accept. Then he will kiss her, like the kisses in the songs, softly, chastely, a brief meeting of lips as he confesses his love for her. Together, they will ride for King’s Landing and have a wedding grander than any celebration Westeros has ever seen. She will give him princes and princesses and one day, she will be his queen.

 

“Do you suppose a match will be made?” Jeyne asks her after. “Do you think the King rides to Winterfell with his son because he wants to propose a marriage between you and him?”

 

Sansa’s heart beats faster. “Perhaps they are only planning to visit father,” she says modestly, even as she does not believe so.

 

Jeyne’s eyes sparkle, ignoring Sansa’s words. “Imagine it! You as Queen!”

 

Sansa laughs, taking her companion’s hands in her own. “I don’t think I can.”

 

“You will live in King’s Landing, you will have the finest silks and meet every Lord. You will have knights bending the knee and see the finest castles! Imagine it!”

 

Sansa shakes her head, her smile wide, despite her words. “We must not think such things. There are a number of reasons a prince could be accompanying his father North.”

 

“Yes,” Jeyne says with a mischievous glint in her eye. “And one is to ask for your hand in marriage.”

 

* * *

 

She is promised to the future king of Westeros, her father is to be the Hand of the King and Sansa cannot be happier. She tells Jeyne that she _must_ come to King’s Landing with her. She promises that they will attend tourneys together and watch handsome knights in bright armour fight for glory and song. Jeyne agrees and Sansa thinks of all the dresses she must take with her.

 

It is her sister who tells her the news. Arya stands before her, dress caked with mud, her hair loose from the braid their mother had tied for her, only to smugly tell her that they will not be the only ones going to King’s Landing.

 

“You’re lying,” Sansa says, her voice shaking. Her bastard half-brother has said, more than once, that he intends to take the Black. Why would he come South with them? Why wasn’t he going North? Or better yet, why wasn’t he staying at Winterfell as they ride for King’s Landing?

 

“I’m not a liar,” Arya says, and Sansa thinks of all the times her sister has lied to their lady mother to protect their half-brother. “If you don’t believe me, ask him yourself.”

 

Sansa’s steps are quick and panicked as she makes her way to the training yard. She finds her half-brother putting away wooden swords, no doubt after sparring with her sister, against her mother’s wishes.

 

“Jon,” she says sternly, and she sees the way he stiffens before he turns to face her. “Arya told me something I can scarcely believe.” She waits, and he says nothing. “She told me that you will be coming with us to King’s Landing,” Sansa says carefully, inviting her half-brother to dispute her words.

 

He raises his head high and eyes her the way she has seen him eye Robb when they are about to spar. “Lord Stark wants me to.”

 

Sansa’s eyes widen. “You _can’t,_ ” she says rashly. “We are to go to court. I am engaged to the _Prince_. If my bastard brother attends court…” She pauses. “You could ruin _everything_!”

 

“Aye, I know,” Jon says stiffly. “Lord Stark insists.”

 

“You can demand him not to take you,” she says desperately. “Say that you refuse to come with us to King’s Landing. If you insist, I’m sure Father would not force you.”

 

She sees the way his jaw tightens, the way his back stiffens. When he speaks, his words are courteous but terse. “I apologise, My Lady. But if you have an issue with me riding South, I suggest you speak to your father about it.”

 

He turns his back to her then, and continues to stack the wooden swords as if she is no longer there.

 

“My mother will not stand for this,” she says coldly, and she is happy to see that his actions pause, just as she turns on her heel to leave.

 

She intends to find her mother. She intends to beg and plead and cry and demand that her half-brother not come to King’s Landing with them.

 

Surely, her mother will speak to her father and he will see how wrong it is to bring her bastard half-brother to court. Sansa cannot imagine the whispers that would occur from the moment he rides into King’s Landing. Surely, her father will agree and let her half-brother join the Night’s Watch.

 

Sansa never asks her mother to speak to her father on her behalf, however.

 

For when Bran falls, she forgets it all. 


End file.
